


Ink Stained Hands

by xxjinchuurikixx



Series: Lines [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek Hale, Come Marking, Derek has a tattoo kink, Emissary Stiles Stilinski, Hand Jobs, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Multi, Pack Mom Stiles, Past Relationship(s), Rough Kissing, Scent Marking, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Stiles is Not a Virgin, The Hale Pack - Freeform, Violence against a rude witch, WHAT DID YOU SAY MO??, Wolf Pack, tattoo porn, tattoo!stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-03-25 09:49:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13831641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxjinchuurikixx/pseuds/xxjinchuurikixx
Summary: The moment the spell breaks, Stiles feels every rune in his skin turn cool and then dim, like fiery embers that have had water quickly rushed upon them. His head is spinning, and he blinks, once, then all his strings are cut, and he collapses.*In which Stiles has magic, tattoos, and an irritating crush on Derek.And Derek is just Derek.





	Ink Stained Hands

**Author's Note:**

> Mara wanted magic Stiles with Derek kissing his tattoos, so now you all get that shit.
> 
> Come yell at me on tumblr!! [xxjinchuurikixx](http://xxjinchuurikixx.tumblr.com/)  
> -xo, mo

 

They’re beautiful. At least Stiles thinks so. He’s peeling the saran wrap from around one forearm when the door bangs open downstairs.

“It’s me!” Scott yells, and Stiles hears a grumbling after. “And Derek. We’re in need of magical assistance.”

Stiles looks up from his forearm into the mirror. Well, no sense trying to hide them. He’s still bloody—or is it plasma? Either way, with werewolves coming up the stairs, there’s no point in rolling his sleeves down over tender skin.

“Up here. In the bathroom,” he calls back.

“I made Derek use the front door to be civilized,” Scott tells him, coming into the doorframe. His eyes zip from Stiles face down to where he’s still peeling aquaphor-gooey plastic, and they gleam red. “Whoa!”

Stiles blushes, laughing dumbly. “Surprise?”

“I can’t believe you didn’t take me with you. How did you survive?”

“Lydia went with me. She was very adamant about not holding my hand.” Stiles looks down at his wrist and pouts as he finally gets one whole sheet of wrap free. He crumbles it up awkwardly and sets it in the sink, admiring the art while Scott takes his hand—too gently—and extends his forearm for a better look.

“Whoa,” Scott repeats. “Are they done?”

“You mean am  _ I _ done?”

Scott snorts. “Yeah.”

“No. These are basics. Assistants, if you will. I’ve gotta hire a whole staff,” Stiles says smugly, and over Scott’s shoulder, he sees Derek in the hall. “Ah, there he is.”

“Derek, come see,” Scott says, stepping slightly to the side while still holding Stiles’ hand, his arm stretched out, palm to the ceiling. “Stiles is gonna be a regular Mage before we know it.”

“I wouldn’t get carried away. Being a Spark is one thing, but…”

Stiles thought his new tattoos were beautiful; a clear mark for other magic beings that he’s magic, too. Even if not nearly so as some of his harrier companions. But the look on Derek’s face as his eyes take in the lines of black-plum-indigo ink staining Stiles’ skin, the edges raised and red, makes Stiles think maybe they’re actually hideous.

Derek’s eyes don’t flash red like Scott’s did, but it’s clear by the way his mouth opens and closes quickly that he’s scenting the plasma and magic that is heady in the bathroom.

Stiles looks down, reading the runes that run up his wrist and forearm. They’re assistants, as he said; magic marks designed to help channel, control, and amplify his magic. The set on his right wrist is slightly different, but does about the same. There are dark curves and sharp edges, like vambraces encircling Stiles’ forearms. 

When he looks back up, Derek’s eyes are cold, his mouth a fine line, and his shoulders tense, gaze locked to the marks now permanently engraved in Stiles’ skin. The marks that show he isn’t human like they thought just a few years ago. That look in Derek’s eyes is one Stiles can’t read, but it makes his insides cold, something twisting around his ribs like icy fingers.

Clearing his throat, Stiles removes his hand from Scott’s grasp. “You guys can go wait in my room, I gotta… clean these. Might be a Spark, but I still gotta treat ‘em like human tattoos. Don’t wanna chafe.”

Scott laughs, lightly patting Stiles’ bicep. “Yeah, you’ll be regretting those when the scabbing starts. I’ll start up your laptop. C’mon, Derek.” Scott eases out of the bathroom, and Stiles begins plucking the saran wrap off his right wrist. 

A shiver crawls from the top of his spine down to the base, settling there like a tremor, and Stiles looks up at the bathroom doorway as Derek steps closer, setting one hand on the wood frame. He’s breathing slow and shallow, like he can’t stand the smell of something. Like he’d rather not breathe at all.

Stiles assumes it’s the magic, because Derek’s looking at his hands, at his wrists, at the tattoos very specifically.

“… Do they hurt?” Derek asks, his voice rough and low, like he just rolled out of bed.

Stiles looks down at his wrists, then back at Derek, and continues unwrapping his right forearm. “A little… it stings. They’re pretty tender, but it’s like… my magic knows what they mean. I can feel it under the skin—maybe it’s kind of like how you feel your wolf.” Stiles clears his throat. “Deaton said they would help. Lydia helped me pick—it was a lot of research.”

Derek nods, but he says nothing else. After a moment, he turns his face down and then walks after Scott towards Stiles’ bedroom, and Stiles sags against the sink counter.

He washes his wrists carefully with the antibacterial soap and warm water, then pats them dry and slathers on plenty of the aquaphor Lydia got him in a huge jar. He thinks about leaving them uncovered, like he really should, but that look on Derek’s face burns in his head, and he pulls his flannel back on over his t-shirt, carefully settling the sleeves comfortably over his wrists.

He knows the material will absorb some of the aquaphor, but he can just put more on once Derek and Scott leave. Sighing, Stiles rakes a hand through his hair and heads to his room.

It bothers him that in the back of his mind he wants Derek to think his tattoos are beautiful, too.

*

A couple weeks later, when the scabbing starts, Stiles wishes he could murder himself. He slathers his arms in Curel and discovers there is no comfortable way to sleep without his arms touching  _ something _ .

Still, once his forearms are healed, he begins practicing magic using his runes, and before the year is over he’s getting more tattoos.

He incorporates runes and sigils into intricate designs and abstract animals, tree branches and feathers begin to take up the pale expanse of his shoulders and collar bones. Wrapping protection sigils and curling waves fill his arms and run down his calves. His magic grows with each additional rune, and soon the small fox he had gotten on the outside of his right ankle begins to breathe and move. 

The marks on his hips are difficult to manage. Originally designed for comfort during emotional or physical duress, Stiles finds they can leech the pain of others the same way a wolf touch does. Of course, he finds this out accidentally catching Isaac in the middle of a shit fight with a tree-monster-thing. The lacerations on Isaac’s arms were already healing, but Stiles had drawn all the agony out of him and then promptly blacked out for seven hours.

In the course of three years, Stiles graduates from the classification of Unexpected Spark to Wolf Emissary Mage, and every time he got a new mark Derek gave him that same look.

Stiles never got used to it. The way Derek’s eyes would go dark, his shoulders tense and trembling, how he couldn’t stand to be around Stiles, even when the marks were hidden by clothes. Stiles would have felt bad if Derek hadn’t been such huge fucking dick. The pack was growing, evolving, and Derek had a problem with how his magic smelled? Rude as fuck.

He thought it would do something about his ever increasing, ever irrevocable love for Derek. Derek’s expression when Stiles was in the healing process was that of a dog who had sniffed a pickle soaked in nail polish remover, whereas the rest of the pack seemed to relish Stiles’ growth of magic.

Still, as Stiles sits on Derek’s couch listening to Scott drone on and on about the expanded perimeters and new security implements, he fiddles with a loose string on his flannel and looks at Derek’s bare feet, feeling just as in love and dumbstruck as he always has been.

It’s been a long time since the pack had anything seriously dangerous happen in Beacon Hills; not since Chris became an ally and the last battle of the hunters happened circa ’17. Aside from a stray wolf here and there seeking alpha guidance or a witch maybe looking to cause mischief, the town is quiet, and the pack thrives.

Thriving, in Stiles opinion, means he hasn’t used his wicked lightning strike magic attack in about eight months, and Derek Hale gets to lounge barefoot in his living room wearing an aged maroon Henley that hangs too low on his collar bones.

“Anything to add, Gandalf?” Scott says, and Stiles looks up at him, tipping his head back until it rests against the back of the couch cushions. It exposes the bit of rune that climbs down the left side of his throat, black-indigo-plum ink hooking along his pale neck.

“Nothing to add, my fine hobbit,” Stiles replies. “Just don’t expect me to strip and run through the forest with the puppy patrol.”

“There go my plans for the weekend,” Jackson says dryly, a playful smirk on his lips.

Stiles rolls his eyes.

Erica crosses her arms over her chest, leaning back against Boyd. “You mean  _ my _ plans.”

“Please, stop,” Lydia says, pressing a hand to her temple. “It’s weird enough you’re all full-grown wolves now. We don’t need to add a naked Stiles to that.”

A curt nod is Stiles’ response.

It goes unsaid that he is the main reason why the whole pack can shift now. Aside from Derek and Scott, he’s the strongest member of the pack, regardless of his lacking wolf traits. His magic helped unlock something in each of the pack, something that pulled their wolves forward, broke the links of some bodily chain. A pack of true wolves had roamed the woods of Beacon Hills for the past two years, once Jackson had been the last to find his form.

Derek seemed happy for the company, even if it removed some of his special snowflake appeal, and Stiles was glad to have some  _ Twilight _ jokes to hand out.

“Alright, are we done for tonight? I have a lecture tomorrow at nine,” Isaac says, rising from his seat beside Jackson.

“I guess so. We’ll have movie night at my house Thursday, and we’ll start the new perimeter patrol Friday.” Scott claps his hands together. “Pack dismissed.”

Lydia hops up, ruffling Stiles’ hair as she passes him. Jackson repeats the action with a mocking expression, following her out. Isaac heads to his room, and after some debate, Erica and Boyd decide to accompany Scott and Allison to a late-night pretzel date, whatever that is.

Stiles scratches at the rune on his neck, idly listening to Scott invite him but declining with a noncommittal hand wave. He glances over at Derek, meaning to say something, but as the front door clicks shut and he’s left in the living room alone with Derek, Stiles realizes Derek’s eyes are on his throat.

Rather, they may be on his fingers, but his fingers are itching his throat, and that’s not a place where a wolf ought to look.

Stiles shoves up off the couch, yanking his shirt down.

Derek gets up too, much more gracefully.

“Well… see you at movie night,” Stiles says, giving Derek an awkward little wave. “I better get home and make sure my dad’s not in the fridge.”

Nodding solemnly, Derek looks over at the wall, which is a much better place for his eyes to be than on Stiles’ neck. “He’s doing alright?”

Stiles snorts. “You see him as much as me, honorary deputy.”

Derek glances back at him, either amusement or mirth curling up the corner of his mouth. “Is that what he calls me?”

“That’s what I call you when you do deputy things in an honorary fashion. You two are like the Batman and Robin of Beacon Hills; defending the people.” Stiles grabs his hoodie off the back of the couch and pulls it on before roughing a hand through his hair. “He definitely picks favorites, though.”

Derek’s smile then is soft and warm. “He’s definitely my favorite.”

“I’m telling Isaac.”

They’re both at the door then, and Derek pulls it open, standing close to Stiles’ side when Stiles turns to look up at him. “You know you’re my favorite.”

Stiles feels that heat crawl up his throat, that old stinging ache that no number of years will ever soothe. He swallows hard, then rolls his eyes to the ceiling. “Yeah, and you’re mine.” He looks at Derek and grins, feeling a bit back in control before he realizes how close they are.

He feels like his magic is going to seep through his pores and he opens his mouth to continue before Derek lifts his hand and touches his throat.

He’s not touching the rune, his fingertips on a space of bare skin just beside it, and Stiles knows Derek can feel his heartbeat pounding frantically as he looks at the mark but still doesn’t touch. “You haven’t gotten any new ones in a while. Run out of empty space?”

Stiles trips over his words, closing his eyes so he doesn’t have to see Derek’s stupid beard and stupid beautiful eyes while he remembers what the question was. “No, n-no. I’ve still got plenty of space. I mean… a lot. Some. There’s enough. It just takes time and energy to train them; to train myself how to use them. Don’t want a repeat of the fire rune.” Stiles opens his eyes, looking down at the floor. “Why? Do I need some more?”

Derek drops his hand and takes a significant step back. “No. Not at all. I just noticed…” He crosses his arms over his chest. “Tell your dad I said hi.”

Stiles nods, palm pressing against the wall behind him before he tries to walk, for support. “Night, Derek.” He slips out of the house and nearly drops his keys trying to get into the Jeep. When he’s in the driver’s seat he grips the steering wheel white-knuckled and groans.

He is still very, very much pathetically awful.

*

It’s almost a month before some witch tries to invade Beacon Hills with the desire to consume the souls of the young and beautiful, which, Stiles thinks of on a weekly basis, is the majority of the populous. Must be something in the water.

Stiles is leaning against Jackson’s side on the couch, Isaac’s head in his lap while Lydia goes over the three disappearances and the one body that has been found. Across from him, Derek is glaring at the floor.

“The body was practically leather. Parrish got me the file—they’re saying salt embalming. But it was definitely this witch.” Lydia frowns at the manila folder holding copied files in her hands. “It’s not pretty. The body was a bit torn up, so it seems some kind of predator may have stolen it from wherever the witch was stashing her ‘food’.”

“So she’s sucking the youth out of people… Alright,  _ Hocus Pocus. _ ” Stiles’ nails rake over the spot behind Isaac’s ear, and the wolf giggles.

“Point being, she’s probably already killed the other three, so we have to find her and get rid of her,” Derek says, looking over at Scott. “There might be no reasoning with her.”

Scott has his arm draped around Allison’s shoulders, a severe look on his face. If they can run off whatever is causing trouble, or prevent the trouble from spreading, they do it. But Scott is hardly ever down with murder, being that one person in the squad who can’t atone to it.

Stiles wishes he would alpha up a little, but that might be a bit of the dark spirit still clinging to his bones.

“Alright. Tomorrow, we trace the source of her magic and find her hideout that way. We’ll find traces of it where the body was found—unless Parrish can get us into the morgue,” Stiles says.

Jackson makes a face. “Fuckin’ sick.”

“I’d rather we just go where the body was found,” Lydia says, making a similar face of disgust. Isaac nods against Stiles’ lap. “Second,” Erica says. Boyd has been uncomfortably quiet, having taken the file from Lydia’s hands to look over the handful of pictures.

Stiles has seen some things in his day, but if the images and descriptions in the folder make  _ Boyd _ blanch, he’s okay skipping them.

Scott releases Allison, standing up and crossing his arms. “Alright. Stiles, you’ll take Erica and Boyd to the place where the body was found, initiate a tracking spell, and locate the witch. Derek, Jackson, and I will run the borders, make sure she can’t leave. Isaac and Lydia will keep an eye on the town, along with the Sheriff, Allison, and Chris. When she’s been located, either Derek or I will go offer some alpha back-up.”

Stiles grins. Sometimes Scott alphas up.

As the pack disperses—Jackson and Isaac slinking off to Isaac’s room for bad movies, Allison and Lydia departing for a girl’s night, and Boyd and Erica getting a ride home from Scott to save gas—Stiles is left alone with Derek again.

He stretches his arms over his head, yawning, his stomach rumbling uncomfortably.

Derek looks him up and down, leaning against the kitchen archway, the front door still open just a few feet away from them. “You alright?”

“Just tired… and a little anxious.”

“Anxious about what?”

Stiles snorts. “A soul-sucking witch? We lost four teens already, Derek. How did she get past us?”

“Her energy clearly isn’t strong enough to have raised any warnings or to have triggered any of the wards you’ve put up.”

It doesn’t make Stiles feel better. “I need to implement new wards. I just always assume our enemies will be more powerful than us.”

Derek smiles then, a gleam in his dark forest eyes that makes Stiles’ neck tingle. “There’s nothing stronger than our pack.”

Slowly, Stiles returns that grin, and he fiddles with the zipper of his sweater, muttering, “Damn right.”

Seeming satisfied that he has settled Stiles’ nerves, Derek tips his chin towards the door. “Good night, Stiles.”

Stiles cracks his shoulder stretching his arms again, and mumbles a good night as he heads down the porch. He looks up at the sky and sees the moon, nearly a waning crescent, and he can hear the trees breathing.

There’s nothing stronger than their pack.

*

It’s the witch’s mistake, really, kidnapping werewolves.

Jackson and Isaac are missing at five a.m., and Stiles hates them both for making him get up so early.

Derek seethes as he swerves around one of the only other cars on the road. “Those dumb brats,” he curses, and Stiles grabs Derek’s bicep and the console at the same time, his seatbelt barely protecting him. “Sneaking out. Sneaking  _ out? _ "

“Hey, it’s puppy love hanging on tight,” Stiles says, then releases the dashboard and fishes into his sweater pocket for his phone as it starts vibrating. “Scott.”

“ _ Where the hell are you? _ ”

“We’re on our way after them right now.”

“ _ You guys should have waited for backup. Shit, Stiles; she kidnapped  _ wolves!”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “I’m with the biggest, baddest wolf right now. I’ll drop the location when we get there. Get Erica and Boyd and get your ass over here as soon as you can.”

“ _ Wait, you don’t even have Erica and Boyd with you?! _ ”

“It was five a.m.!” Figures Scott would wake up after just one text from Stiles. But it also figures Stiles would crawl out of bed wide awake at five after five when Derek climbed through his window and grabbed him. “We are  _ fine _ , Scott!” Stiles hangs up, and Derek wheels around a corner and then peels out onto a barely paved road that runs parallel to the highway before running away from it. “Still smell them?”

“Still feel them?” Derek answers his question with a question.

Stiles nods, though. The tiny pulses of magic that tie him to each pack member—non-wolves included—are splintered across Beacon Hills currently, with Derek’s warm, forest-on-fire glow being the strongest, closest. He closes his eyes, and there’s a shimmer of buttercup-yellow and cherry-wine off in the woods, the other seven important blips of energy the opposite direction. His fingers tingle.

Beside him, Derek’s lightning and midnight blue energy is the strongest glow.

The road peters around the beginnings of the mountains, and Stiles points off into the treeline. Derek turns off a narrow lane and pulls into a small parking lot for hikers. When he climbs out, Stiles follows, and they head into the woods, Derek growling in his chest the entire time.

It’s not even a mile into the thick tree maze when they come across a small cabin, probably used as a family retreat or a horror movie vacation getaway.

Stiles’ throat itches. “Should we wait for the others?” He drops his location into Scott’s message box, and Derek shakes his head, just once, eyes bleeding red.

“You’re all I need, and I’m all you’ve got,” Derek says, and if his voice wasn’t turning wolf as his face shifts, Stiles would think the words are almost romantic.

He thinks of the Derek that used to be. Past Derek. First Year Derek. That Derek would have said ‘you’re all I’ve got, and I’m all you need’, because that Derek wouldn’t have trusted Stiles to have his back. Wouldn’t have trusted Stiles to do much, really.

Stiles looks at  _ his _ Derek, and he nods.

Derek kicks the cabin door in, and the witch spins around on them. Her hair is a thick tumble of chestnut curls, her body lean and long, and her eyes glow an unnatural honeydew color of magic.

“My, my, this town is just a honey pot, isn’t it? Not just wolves, but another witch as well? And just as pretty as the rest of them,” the witch says, which solicits a snarl from Derek.

Stiles looks past her, surveying the room. The cabin is set up like a studio, with one big room and a bathroom, a fireplace on one wall.

Drained of energy with a waning moon in the sky, Isaac is unconscious and chained by his throat before some creepy altar of animal bones and white chalk sigils and candles, and it’s all too cheesy for Stiles’ taste. In the corner of the room, Jackson is also unconscious, his arms bound behind his back. His cheek is bruised and there’s a crescent of mountain ash locking him in place.

A flare of rage rides up Stiles’ throat, and he spits, “Mage, actually.”

She cackles, a typical witch sound. “A Spark who thinks he’s special.”

Derek’s hackles raise, his fangs looking huge in the light of all the candles.

The witch grins at him. “If you want, you can go next?”

Stiles throws his hand out at her, a disarming charm that he’s used a dozen times before. It doesn’t have nearly the same effect as the other times, and he immediately regrets it. Rather than knocking the witch on her ass, it releases all the charms she’s currently holding around herself, and her pretty looks and the interior of the cabin peel back like dry paint or flaking skin.

Despite eating the souls of the young and lovely, her true form is gnarled and twisted, leathery skin and prominent bones looking gaunt and horrific as she screeches at Stiles. The room is littered with bones and strips of skin, and in the corner near Jackson there’s a crumpled body looking mummified like the first one they found.

Stiles’ stomach roils, and he’s so caught off guard by poor sleeping Jackson slumped so close to pre-Billy Zane Imhotep he doesn’t even see the witch make a lunge for him.

Derek roars, fully shifted into beta form, and tackles her to the ground.

Stiles jolts, and he rushes to the altar and slides on his knees, taking the witch’s distraction in the form of Derek’s teeth snapping in her face to get Isaac free. His hands burn and ache as he breaks the runes and wards carved into the iron collar around Isaac’s throat, and when the metal busts free Isaac whines and slumps backwards into Stiles’ arms.

“I’ve got you. We’re here,” Stiles whispers, touching Isaac’s throat, magic seeping from his body, the rune in his hip tingling as he bleeds Isaac’s pain.

Still he doesn’t wake, not fully.

Stiles leans down over Isaac and tilts his head up, touching his thumb to Isaac’s bottom lip, opening his mouth. He exhales, and small sparks dance across Isaac’s lips and cheek when Stiles’ breath touches his skin. “Wolfsbane,” Stiles murmurs.

It’s not a lethal dose, but the witch clearly came to town knowing full well she might run into wolves, and Stiles wants to break her hands for hurting his pups. He yanks one of the pendants around his neck up over his head, snapping the phial open and pouring half the wolfsbane-laced gunpowder into his palm.

“Luck and the prepared and all,” Stiles mutters, and with a touch of his fingertip the gunpowder burns, crackling in fine dust before he blows a puff of it across Isaac’s face.

The wolf starts coughing, his body sagging to the floor, and when he opens his eyes they gleam yellow as he inhales deeply.

The sound of wood breaking makes Stiles turn his head, and he sees the leathery beast of a witch trying to slash ridiculous claws at Derek, who dodges effortlessly but can’t get much closer.

Isaac falls back into a half-awake completely useless state, and Stiles scrambles across the floor to Jackson.

His wrists glow as he breaks the line of mountain ash and then repeats the wolfsbane cure on Jackson. He’s about to cut the ropes binding Jackson’s arms behind his back when the witch reels on him, screeching, and Stiles feels foreign magic burn up his back before he’s thrown into the air, tossed across the room like he weighs nothing, and collides half with the window, half the stone wall.

The glass shatters, and Stiles chokes on his own breath as his body slams to the floor. A wheezing cough escapes his lungs finally, and he rolls over from his side onto his stomach, pain blooming and bursting across all points of his body.

He’s almost caught his breath when he hears a sharp yelp, and then the sound of bricks busting free from the hearth around the fireplace.

There’s a cold snap up Stiles’ spine, and he turns his face towards the sound, glass cutting his palms as he presses against the floor.

Derek’s on the ground, his features human, his forehead bleeding, his shirt torn open across his stomach. He curls on himself, inching backwards, putting himself between the witch and Isaac’s slumped form. Snarling, Derek bares his fangs at the witch, who seems to have gotten even uglier, and the witch kneels before him and curls her spindly fingers under his chin, grinning at him with too big, too yellow teeth.

“I might keep you as a pet, alpha,” the witch murmurs, voice sand-paper and ash.

Stiles’ wrist is sprained, and he has a shard of glass in his thigh, but he’s not choking on wolfsbane or curses, and there’s a fissure of lightning bleeding between the nerves and bones of his spine.

He gets to his feet, the blood soaking his jeans and palms existing only in a place far away from the rage Stiles is feeling. He lifts his arm, wrist pulling, tugging, snapping back into place, and opens his hand.

An invisible magic with the pressure of a hurricane races across the floor, splintering the wooden boards, crushing them down, runes shattering like bolts of thunder as they thrash the witch away from Derek and across the room, pinning her sprawled to the wall.

Stiles knows the magic building behind his ribs, but he’s never used it before. He spreads his fingers, runes on his chest glowing like moonlight, his wrists blazing, and the witch starts screaming.

She’s like an insect, something inferior and stuck upon glass with nails and pins. She’s shrieking like a mad beast, a bird and a siren, her eyes and teeth looking huge in her shriveled face.

The raven on Stiles’ arm lights afire, the fox and hound around his ankle stinging, every beast and tree limb and claw and petal upon his skin roaring like a fiery wind. And Stiles pushes the final wave of energy forward, a pulse that shatters the rest of the cabin’s windows to a soft-grain sand, a split of white light that turns the witch to ashes and a black stain upon the wood and stone of the wall.

The moment the spell breaks, Stiles feels every rune in his skin turn cool and then dim, like fiery embers that have had water quickly rushed upon them. His head is spinning, and he blinks, once, then all his strings are cut, and he collapses.

Derek catches him before his head hits the floor, but his knee impacting with the wood sends a shock up his leg, the shard of glass shifting, pain biting his flesh and nerves.

Stiles makes a pathetic sound, and the pain almost instantly starts leaving his body. He reaches down with shaking fingers, his head and one shoulder cradled against Derek’s broad chest, and plucks the glass from his muscle.

“Stiles,” Derek says, rough, breathless, and Stiles presses his palm over the gash. No arteries have been severed, but damn it hurts. His palms sting, wounds cauterized by magic but still aching as if fresh.

Pushing his face into Derek’s neck, Stiles grabs at the torn fabric of Derek’s shirt, inhaling wet and shaky. “You’re bloody.”

“Already healed. I’m alright. It’s okay, Stiles,” Derek huffs, burying his face in the tousled mess of Stiles’ hair.

Stiles droops against him like a wilted flower, closing his eyes. “Fuck.”

“Yeah,” Derek says, thumb rubbing small semi-circles over Stiles’ shoulder.

A moment passes, a dozen, a hundred, and Stiles feels sick when he opens his eyes again and looks around.

Aside from Isaac, Jackson, Derek, and the miserable body collapsed beside the wall, all evidence of the witch has been obliterated, from the bones and meat to the very chalk marks that had tied Isaac down. The chain and collar, the ropes on Jackson’s arms; all of it. Everything.

Especially the witch. Stiles looks at the back coal mark on the wall that vaguely looks like a torso and limbs, and his stomach lurches, acid burning up the back of his throat. “Oh gods…”

Derek immediately shifts the other way, putting his back to the witch, dragging Stiles into his lap, into his arms. “Don’t, Stiles. It’s alright.”

“Derek, she…” Stiles can’t even really say he’d killed her. The pack had killed before. An alpha who wanted Lydia got his neck snapped. Druids had to be dispatched. The pack had seen death and inflicted it. Even Stiles had taken a life before, but this wasn’t so much taking a life as it was obliterating something’s existence.

He pushes his face into Derek’s throat and shudders, the smell of blood and magic and ozone in the air. Stiles whimpers, Derek’s hand carding through his hair. “I just saw… I felt the…”

“I’m alright. The boys are okay, too. They smell clean; they’ll wake up soon. We’re alright, Stiles,” Derek murmurs, and Stiles inhales hard through his nose, smelling Derek over the iron and rust.

There’s a howl outside, and when Stiles opens his eyes again, the sun is edging through the trees on the far east horizon, the sky turning from indigo to periwinkle, clouds highlighting with warm pastels.

Another howl follows, and then the sound of feet pounding on gravel and bracken.

Derek sits back, cupping Stiles’ face in one hand, making him look up.

Stiles feels woozy, his runes numbed, muted, the exhaustion making his magic feel like a snuffed out candle. But seeing Derek’s face, his eyes soft and warm, so full of concern, rinses Stiles off with calm. He exhales, letting himself push into the contact of Derek’s hand.

Scott comes bounding in, Erica and Boyd wolves beside him, panting and baring their teeth. Erica runs over to Isaac, nuzzling his face, and Scott starts asking questions.

It sounds like Derek is explaining, that the witch’s magic caused all the damage, that Stiles’ is hurt and Jackson and Isaac were knocked unconscious by wolfsbane but Stiles saved them.

Derek’s hand comes to cup the back of Stiles’ neck, fingers accidentally touching the runes carved into his nape, and with a tiny  _ whuff _ of magic, Stiles passes out in Derek’s lap.

*

Stiles wakes up at noon, in his own bed, and the pack has already settled the entire situation. It’s only after he reads all his text messages from Scott that he realizes he’s waking up at noon  _ the next day. _

Isaac and Jackson are recovering from the wolfsbane on Derek’s couch, grounded with supervision from Erica but with cartoon access, and the second body has been ‘found’ by the police. The cabin has been destroyed by a gas leak, and the perimeters of the Beacon Hills pack have been refortified. 

Scott tells Stiles that Derek had taken him home, and that if he needs any help with the pain to tell him and Scott will be right there. But it’s not Scott Stiles wants to see, and the thought of pushing his face into Derek’s hand, of the witch hitting him so hard his shift was broken, makes Stiles’ chest tight.

He sits up in his bed, the sky outside soft and gray, and his entire body protests at the idea of getting up to pee. He can feel his runes again, his magic humming quietly like a second skin over his body, anxious after the ridiculous stress of the spell.

His hands are wrapped in soft gauze, though he knows they’ve healed just fine by now, and his leg is bandaged under his pajama bottoms. Stiles touches his fingers to the gauze, feeling the tenderness, the ache, but no wet, sticky give of an open wound protesting. It’s closed, knitting itself just fine, and he wonders who gave his body such gentle attentions while he was unconscious. He’s wearing his favorite, softest batman sleep shirt, and clean boxers.

Stiles doesn’t suspect Scott. He wouldn’t have put Stiles in underwear at all. He doesn’t suspect his dad. Stiles has a designated pajama drawer, and the batman shirt doesn’t reside there. There’s only one suspect, but Stiles won’t allow his brain to follow that yellow brick road to the end.

John has sausage and potatoes going in a skillet when Stiles finally limps his way down the stairs. He looks up at Stiles and opens his mouth, taking in the sight of him. When he speaks, his voice is soft, like Stiles is a spooked deer, and Stiles feels like shit for worrying his dad  _ yet again _ . “Hey. How you feelin’, kiddo?”

Stiles crawls onto the couch, looking over the back of it to watch his dad scuttle to the fridge and pull out a carton of orange juice. “Like Mufasa,” Stiles says as his dad pours two glasses.

John looks over at him, brows furrowed.

“Like I’ve been trampled by a stampede of wildebeest.”

“Oh… that’s awfully morbid there,” John says. He brings Stiles one of the glasses, which Stiles mostly uses magic to hold since his fingers feel exhausted, then goes back to the stove and cracks some eggs into the skillet.

Stiles breathes in deep. “Campfire eggs. And pancakes?”

“Unfortunately for you, there was no pancake mix in the pantry, and I wasn’t going to leave you here alone until you’d woken up,” John says matter-of-factly.

“Angry at me but still making a healthy breakfast for the invalid… You’re getting soft, old man.” Stiles grins.

John levels a  _ look _ at him, and Stiles looks down and away as he takes a sip of his orange juice.

“Derek said you did something new. Said you… it was a lot of power. Then you blacked out.” John scrubs a hand down his face, taking the skillet off the heat.

Stiles blinks. “He told you what happened?”

“And told me to keep it to myself. Apparently the two of you were there alone; he’s the only other one who saw.” His dad looks so incredibly tired as he plates their breakfast up. “He was really worried about how you reacted. Something about the way you smelled; what you had done really scared you. He told me to keep an eye on you.”

Stiles fusses with the seam of the couch, scratching his nails over it idly. So Derek told his dad he turned the witch to a wall blemish and then passed out after a small panic attack. Why he didn’t tell the pack was still confusing, but that he was worried about Stiles’  _ smell? _

“…I’m sorry, dad,” Stiles says finally, quietly. “I know the whole magic thing is getting tiring… and it’s not very fair to you.”

John huffs. “The pack protects you, and you’re plenty capable of protecting them.” He brings the plates over and sits down on the couch right next to Stiles, handing him the one covered in ketchup. “You being gifted like this Stiles, it isn’t a bad thing. And it’s not tiring. Just stressful, I suppose. I worry about you kids, out there pretending to be Superman.”

Stiles laughs dryly.

“I’m serious, Stiles. You and the kids, you’ve been through a lot. And you keep… going through  _ new _ things,” John says, poking at some sausage and potato. “I just want you all safe. I’m getting old—I won’t be able to take care of you forever.”

“Oh, please. Don’t even go there, dad. I’m gonna have you for a really long time,” Stiles says, his voice a warning growl, because his dad is not about to give him the ‘one day I’ll be gone’ speech.

John smiles, reaching out to gently pat Stiles’ cheek. “I just know you’ll be taken care of… but I need you to still take care of yourself. And to take care of them.”

Nodding, Stiles finally takes a bite of his campfire eggs, and he almost cries because his dad used the secret little bottle of secret Stiles spices, and it tastes like heaven in his mouth. “I promise, dad.”

John pats his cheek again. “Good boy.”

*

Stiles is healed before the week ends, and he makes sure Isaac and Jackson won’t have any lasting effects from the wolfsbane, though their bodies have fully expelled the shit by the time Stiles gets his hands on them. Still, they’re both starved for Stiles’ cuddles, and they come over and smother Stiles into his couch for the duration of all the Disney Renaissance movies.

The pack all have pizza and movie night at Scott’s house Saturday night, except for Derek, who has been scarce, and Lydia, who has a cold. Even supernatural beings could still get the sniffles. Stiles goes over the next morning with herbal tea and a few charms he hangs in Lydia’s window while she sweats, curled up in bed, and still manages to smell good.

Stiles keeps thinking about that feeling in his body, the way lightning had sizzled in his spine, how he had cast a spell his body barely had the strength for without thought or hesitation. He eats and sleeps and keeps aching, because it doesn’t wholly make sense.

Nearly two weeks later, he sees Derek for the first time since the incident, and he remembers Derek holding him close, smelling of forest and musk and his own drying blood, telling Stiles they were okay.

Derek doesn’t even look at him. Not once, the whole journey it is about a possible pixie problem, which Isaac can say three times fast but Erica butchers. They end up wrestling on the floor while Scott gets everyone ice cream, and Lydia sidles up close to Stiles and rests her head on his shoulder.

“You’ve been distracted,” she says, and he ignores the way she looks over at Derek. 

Stiles is trying to beat his current level on Disney emoji blitz, and Lydia will not distract him. “I’m fine.”

“You haven’t been fine since that witch. Longer, if you want to be technical, even.”

“Nope. Fine.”

Lydia glances at his screen, then up at Stiles. She doesn’t even hesitate when she uses his Donald Duck bomb at the wrong time, clicking the screen and totally blowing up all the little Simbas instead. It completely fucks Stiles’ score.

“Lydia!”

“He’s not fine, either,” she says, then huffs and gets to her feet, stepping around the pile of wolves that now includes Jackson and Boyd.

Stiles glances at Derek, something hopeful warming up his throat, the runes across his collar thrumming.

But Derek doesn’t look up from his book, and Stiles eventually gives up and goes to help Scott with ice cream. It’s hectic, juggling bowls enough for a pack of wolves who still have appetites like teenagers. Some things never change.

*

It’s pouring outside when somebody starts pounding on Stiles’ front door. It’s early in the morning still, but outside the sky is a churning gray sheet and the sound of thunder echoing in the distance is a continuous rumble.

Stiles yanks the door open, eyes raking from toe to head as he sees Derek hunched under the awning of his porch, soaked and drenched and dripping, and all the other wet words.

“I’m sorry,” Derek says gruffly, arms crossed tightly over his chest. He’s not shivering, but he’s also only wearing a t-shirt that maybe used to be gray before it was soaked and jeans. His feet are bare. “I was on a perimeter run… It just started pouring.”

“Get in here,” Stiles says, stepping sideways. “Why did you knock?”

“I didn’t want to climb through your window and get everything wet.”

“Gracious. Thank you, good sir.” Stiles hurries off to the bathroom, leaving Derek to close and lock the front door. He grabs some towels and returns to find Derek carefully peeling his soaked shirt over his head. It ruffles his wet hair, sending spikes sticking in all directions, and his abs have rivulets of water running through them, droplets collected in the dark hair on his chest and down into his jeans.

A younger Stiles would have immediately swooned. Older, magic Stiles swallows thickly and swoons more slowly.

“You know, if you got a TV, you could watch the weather channel.”

“I have an app.”

“Did you check it? Cause it’s supposed to rain all day.”

“ _ Stiles _ .”

“Here’s some towels. If you don’t mind wearing a pair of my undies, I can toss your stuff in the dryer.”

“Fantastic idea,” Derek says gruffly, clearly not excited about having to wear Stiles’ boxers. 

“Go strip in the bathroom, I’ll get the underwear. You can hang out here ‘til the rain stops, kay? I’d drive you home, but I’d like to enjoy my lazy Sunday.” Stiles watches Derek ruffle a towel over his head for a moment before he turns and heads up the stairs to his room.

He’s grown since high school, but he’s pretty sure Derek’s thighs are too thick—holy hell, they’re thick—for the majority of his boxers. Still, Stiles finds a black pair with a soft, worn band of elastic that’ll probably fit Derek like a pair of briefs.

A floorboard creaks behind him, deliberately, and Stiles turns around to see Derek in his bedroom doorway, shirtless but still wearing his wet jeans, towel draped around his neck.

“You totally got water all over my stairs. I’m telling my dad it was you.”

Derek’s eyes are on Stiles’ bed, dark forest and burnt amber in the muted light coming through the window. His shoulders are tense and there’s a set to his mouth that Stiles hasn’t seen in a long time, but it reads determination almost overshadowed by fear.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Stiles says. It’s not to call Derek out, really. He’s just starting a conversation. Badly.

Derek is still quiet, his eyes taking in every aspect of Stiles’ room except Stiles standing in it.

Thunder grumbles across the sky outside. “You weren’t on a perimeter run… were you?”

Lips parting in thought, Derek looks out the window as the pressure of the rain increases. “I wanted to see you.”

Stiles stretches the waistband of the boxers in his hands. “So you’re done avoiding me?”

He glances at Stiles, and his eyes seem to take in more than just Stiles as he is. It’s like he sees Stiles as he was, and every step between; it’s like he can see what Stiles can be,  _ will _ be, and a small growl rumbles in Derek’s chest.

It’s been about three months since he and Derek were in his room alone for pack related business, and it hadn’t felt like this. Well, technically only about three weeks ago Derek and Stiles had been alone in here, but Stiles was unconscious.

Stiles is twenty three, and aside from the tattoos and some scars, he’s the same. Derek is pushing thirty, and he’s only gotten more gorgeous. His beard is fuller, darker, and while he’s become softer over the years, he’s still broad and dense with muscle. It’s not entirely fair, Stiles thinks, that even as Derek changes he remains very much the same man Stiles fell in love with so many years ago.

It’s not fair that Stiles fell in love with him at all.

“…It’s seeing you like this that shows me time has passed,” Derek says quietly, looking down at his hands and he scratches at one palm. “Your room is the same. But you’re not.”

As if Derek were reading his mind, Stiles hears the words and they echo his thoughts like a mirror image. He looks down at the boxers in his hands and tosses them back into the open drawer, then curses himself because he has nothing to do with his hands.

It’s then Stiles remembers his attire of loose sweats and a t-shirt, the runes on his collarbones and his arms bared to Derek’s gaze. He’s usually not so naked in front of Derek if he can help it, his discomfort at how Derek looks at the marks still as fresh as it had been that first day Scott caught him in the bathroom. His hands feel even more useless then, flexing at Stiles’ sides.

“I’m not so different.” Stiles shrugs. “I mean… I hope I’m not.”

“It’s a good different,” Derek says quickly, meaning to be reassuring but sounding strained. “You’re… you’re still you, but this… this you is…”

“You’re different, too.”

“Yes?”

“A very good different. You’re softer. Nicer. The beard looks.” Stiles breaks off, flashing Derek a thumbs up.

Derek smiles, looking down at his feet. “Softer.” He drags the towel off his shoulders and drops it.

Stiles nods. “You’re like the wise, sagely alpha now, instead of the tough bully alpha. You teach through shoulder pats and kindness, and the pack adores you.”

“You’re harder.” Derek’s a bit closer now, moving into Stiles’ room with small, careful steps. “Everything about you is stronger.”

“Derek,” Stiles murmurs, and his hands have something to do when Derek is close enough to touch because they set themselves on the smooth bones of Derek’s hips, fingers shaking.

“They adore you, too… The pack. You gave them something no other pack has done before. Even most born wolves can’t attain the shift; you gave them this incredible freedom, this gift. Our pack loves you. You’re an alpha we can be proud of.”

“I’m not an alpha, though. I’m not even a wolf,” Stiles mumbles.

“You’re not a normal emissary, either. Stiles, so much of what our pack has accomplished is because of you. You’re a leader. Our Spark. Beacon Hills is safe; wolves from all corners and all packs know who you are.”

That makes Stiles blush, but he laughs. A wolf at a group pack meeting called him ‘the Spark with the beast pack’, and another emissary had said he lived in a literal den of wolves. They seemed afraid of him, and why shouldn’t they be? Stiles was an unsteady force of nature at the time; a crackle of lightning standing beside Derek and Scott, who were imposing by themselves.

“I mean… that’s all well and good, but I’m still not sure what that has to do with…  _ this _ ,” Stiles says, looking down the carved plains of Derek’s chest and stomach, down to where his palms are pressed to his hips, fingertips edging the waistline of his low-cut jeans.

_ This _ means everything teen Stiles wanted coming into reality like a dream come true.  _ This _ means Derek in his space, Stiles’ heartbeat in his throat.  _ This _ means Derek’s eyes on Stiles’ lips when he speaks again.

“Stiles, what happened in the cabin with that witch… I’ve never seen you like that,” Derek says.

Stiles swallows. “My dad said you were worried.”

“I was. You wore yourself out. Even you have limits, it seems.”

“Says the limitless werewolf.”

Derek growls quietly. “I wasn’t too limitless when she threw me into a fireplace… It was you that saved our pack. You protected Isaac and Jackson; you saved me, you beat her.”

“I decimated her,” Stiles corrects.

“Did it scare you?”

“ _ Duh _ .”

“I didn’t scare me,” Derek says. Stiles looks up into his face, and Derek’s eyes are clear and warm. “I was scared that  _ you _ were scared, but inside I felt nothing but pride and awe. You should have  _ felt _ your magic. It was warm, and blinding, and while it completely destroyed your enemy it was harmless to your pack. It was destructive, but it was defensive. Protective.”

“Derek, I’m not following you.”

“Your magic made a decision without your full conscious. You’re even more powerful than we thought, and I’m sorry I didn’t make better preparations to keep you safe as your strength grew,” Derek says, sounding angry though not at Stiles.

Stiles blinks. “…To keep  _ me _ safe?”

Derek is quiet.

Scoffing, Stiles digs his nails into Derek’s skin, crescents edging into his flesh. “Derek, I’m not sure I was the one in danger of getting hurt.”

“I was always scared of hurting you,” Derek says, setting his hands on the dresser behind Stiles, their foreheads nearly touching. It smothers the anger that was building in Stiles and leaves him flushing warmly. “It was so hard.”

“I’m not trying to make things hard for you, Derek. I’m really not, I just…”

“It doesn’t have to be anymore…” Derek bumps their foreheads together then, bare feet stepping between Stiles’. “It can be really easy, if it’s alright with you.”

Stiles swallows, hard. “Which means?”

Derek lifts one hand off the dresser, fingers trailing lightly up Stiles’ arm, raising shivers across his skin, the runes humming. He hesitates at the edge of Stiles’ collar bone, and Stiles can feel his pulse in the rune on his throat, longing for Derek’s touch.

“You’re strong. Not just stronger than you used to be, but stronger than  _ me. _ ”

Stiles’ laugh is startled out of him. “Not possible.”

“A wolf is only as strong as their anchor,” Derek huffs, embarrassed. 

Stiles almost jumps at that, and he can feel his heart pushing at the back of his throat like it’s ready to be coughed out. “…So that’s true.”

“Of course it is.”

“You made me your anchor?” Stiles breathes, not trusting his voice to be much louder.

Derek nudges their foreheads together, a quiet, purring rumble humming in his chest that blends with the next wave of thunder outside. “You made yourself my anchor. Couldn’t have gotten rid of you if I tried… And now I don’t want to.”

“That’s a serious commitment, Derek.”

“Stiles, I’ve been tied to you since the moment we met. Everything from then to now, it’s only drawn me deeper into you… I’m yours. Whatever you want that to mean--as your friend, your alpha, anything. “

Stiles drops his head down, pushing his face into Derek’s neck as Derek scoots in closer. “You’re sure you want me for an anchor? I don’t weigh too much.”

“You’re a force of nature, Stiles. We’ve been through a lot of shit together, and over the years some things have changed… but I knew you were meant for me when I first felt your magic.”

Stiles blinks at that, tipping his head back so he can look up into Derek’s eyes. “My… my magic?”

As if he doesn’t hear, Derek keeps going. “I’m not afraid of myself anymore. I’m not afraid of hurting you,” Derek says surely, like they’re words he’s been holding onto for a very long time, waiting for the time to say them, waiting for them to be true.

“I was never afraid of you. I never will be, Derek,” Stiles answers just as sure, brushing his thumbs in arches over Derek’s lower abdomen. Beneath his touch, Derek’s muscles quiver. “You’d never hurt me. I can’t hurt you.”

Derek presses his palm over Stiles’ throat, covering the rune, which pulses under his touch, warm and honeyed with a tingle of magic. “You have no idea.”

“I won’t. I promise, I won’t. I’ll be so good; I’ll take such good care of you, Derek. And if I’m not what you thought… if it turns out you don’t want… us,”  _ it’ll kill me _ remains unsaid. It’s hard to breathe. Stiles isn’t sure he’s doing it at all, save the fact he can smell the fabric softener of the towel lingering on Derek’s skin.

“You’re it, Stiles,” Derek says, fingertips pressing surely to Stiles’ skin, thumb sliding under Stiles’ jaw to tilt his chin up. “You’ve always been it.”

Stiles closes his eyes, because he can’t handle hearing Derek say that while he sees the ardent devotion in Derek’s eyes. He exhales, hands palming up from Derek’s hips to his chest. He can feel Derek’s pulse through his warm skin, and it makes Stiles’ breath shudder, that Derek’s heartbeat is as frantic and powerful as his own. He grinds his teeth, then tries to hide in Derek’s neck again. He’s halted by Derek nudging his head back, nearly kissing him, and the closeness of their mouths isn’t wasted on either of them, their shared intake of breath quiet in the room.

Noses bumping, Stiles can feel his heart making an attempt to crack through his ribs, but under his palm, Derek’s is still matching in a hectic frenzy. Waiting. “I love you, you jerk. For years, I’ve been in love with your stupid face and your stupid voice and your stupid heart. I love you; I do.”

Derek smiles, a slow, warm action that oozes honey through Stiles’ veins. “I love you, too.”

Stiles returns that smile full force, the runes across his collar bones and wrists aching, magic warming and thrumming alive. “So… that’s it?”

Still grinning, Derek brushes his lips against the corner of Stiles’ mouth. “I think this is the part where we do something about it.”

Tossing all caution and also self-respecting control out the window, Stiles wraps his arms around Derek’s neck and turns his face into the touch of Derek’s mouth. Their lips are soft, uncoordinated, but Derek gets his arms around Stiles and steps even closer, pushing him against the dresser, and every nook and edge of their muscle and bone slots correctly into place. 

Stiles sighs against Derek’s mouth, his brain a loop of  _ holy shit, holy shit _ , and Derek growls against his mouth before gently licking at Stiles’ lips.

Such a polite werewolf, Stiles muses, but his mouth falls eagerly open for Derek, and that first fell swoop of Derek’s tongue against his has fireworks going off in Stiles’ ribs.

He tangles his hands in Derek’s rain-damp hair, and he smells like ozone and musk and he tastes like a storm on Stiles’ tongue. Sparks run under Derek’s palms when he slides them up from the small of Stiles’ back to his shoulders, and between their chests the static breathes.

Stiles breaks the kiss when a shock crackles between their tangled tongues, not enough to hurt but enough to get Stiles’ brain back online. “’m sorry.”

Derek shakes his head, one hand riding back down to the small of Stiles’ back, fingertips dipping into the waistband of his sweats. “It’s okay. It’s great. Just surprising.”

“I don’t want to electrocute your dick when I get my mouth on it,” Stiles pants, yanking on Derek’s hair harder than he means to.

Derek growls, tilting his head back into the pull. “Is that what you want?”

“I want all of it,” Stiles tells him, claiming Derek’s mouth again. “What do you want?”

Derek grins, and then Stiles yelps as he is lifted effortlessly off the ground, limbs flailing to wrap around Derek’s body. “You. All of you that I can have.”

“I could just punch you in the face, you sappy, romantic—“the room spins as Derek topples Stiles over into his bed, landing easily on top of him without crushing him.

“We’ll have time for that later.”

“Sooner, if you don’t get your wet pants off my bed,” Stiles growls, and Derek eases off the bed, unbuttons and unzips his jeans, and drops them to the floor. His black briefs are barely containing the thick, ridiculous outline of his cock.

“Oh my god, Derek, let me get my mouth on you.”

“Soon. Right now, I’d like to get my hands and teeth all over you.” Derek puts his teeth against Stiles’ neck, sliding his hands up Stiles’ arms to pin his wrists above his head.

Stiles hiccups. “All over, huh?”

“Here specifically,” Derek groans, and then drags his tongue over the rune on Stiles’ throat.

There’s a tingle, and then a zap, and Stiles moans embarrassingly loud as his magic flares up under the hot, wet streak Derek leaves on his skin.

Derek sits back a bit, eyes gleaming red as he pants open mouthed, looking down at Stiles’ bared neck. “Your mark… it’s glowing.”

Stiles shivers. “Huh?”

“The rune is glowing red,” Derek says, releasing one of Stiles’ wrists in favor of lightly brushing his thumb over the indigo-plum-black ink on Stiles’ neck. “It’s… following my touch.”

“It’s my magic.”

“Isn’t your magic violet? And white?”

Stiles lifts a hand and touches Derek’s cheek, thumb brushing under his eye. “We match.”

His magic is responding to Derek’s wolf, the alpha turning his energy red as crushed rubies. As if testing the words, Derek brushes his thumb over the runes etched into Stiles’ inner wrist. In the wake of his touch, the marks flare up from deep black ink to glowing red embers. The light lingers, even as Derek’s touch moves away, searching for him, then dims softly. Stiles shudders, the tingles of magic like static honey.

Derek growls in his chest. “Have they ever done that before?”

Stiles shakes his head. “It’s for you.”

There’s a heartbeat of tension between them, a pause that seems to stretch forever as the sky thunders. It matches the sound in Derek’s chest, and Stiles swallows hard. Derek tangles their fingers together and licks up the inside of Stiles’ forearm, halting at his wrist to suck on his pulse.

“ _ Ohh _ , hah— _ ah. _ That’s a strange, very much welcome sensation,” Stiles gasps, and Derek drags his fangs across the dark lines of ink. Red pulses in the wake of his touch, and he looks up at Stiles, eyes the same shade. “I thought you hated them,” Stiles admits, his voice winded.

Derek’s fingers squeeze Stiles’, and he nuzzles his face across the runes on Stiles’ wrist. “I love them. Wanted to tell you how much I love these the moment you got them. Wanted to taste them when they were still fresh—taste your blood, your magic,” Derek growls, and he licks the mark in the center of Stiles’ wrist again.

Stiles’ hips buck of their own accord, and his breath hitches in his throat. “They’re totally free for tasting now.”

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry, I just didn’t know how to tell you. It would have been very callous if I grabbed you and locked you in the bathroom with me to let my wolf loose on you,” Derek huffs, smiling.

“It would have been accepted with gratitude.”

Derek snarls, and he squeezes Stiles’ hand, turning his attention from Stiles’ wrist to his face. He presses their cheeks together, the scratch of his beard igniting something in the pit of Stiles’ stomach. The following knowledge that Derek is scenting him definitely hits Stiles’ dick with the same excitement, and he moans brokenly and tilts his head away.

The motion bares his throat, the long, pale column of his neck stretched out for Derek’s taking. And Derek growls, the sound appreciative and also possessive, and he buries his face against Stiles’ throat and breathes. His tongue laves hot and damp over Stiles’ pulse, and then Derek nuzzles the heated skin with his whole face.

“Der,” Stiles murmurs, getting a hand into Derek’s hair.

“I’ve been thinking about this for years,” Derek groans, and then he latches his teeth onto the tender flesh at the bare side of Stiles’ throat and starts sucking. Stiles’ is arching up into him, yanking Derek’s hair to hold him close though he’s pretty sure Derek has no intention of relenting his attentions.

When Stiles’ throat is pulsing, aching with the lingering sting of tiny broken vessels, Derek scratches his beard over it, breath hot and wet as he moves lower, going to the other side of Stiles’ neck just above his collar bone. He grabs Stiles’ jaw and pushes his head back, catching the new patch of skin with his lips and teeth.

Stiles is burning under his skin, everything he knows about wolves and marking and the violent delight of having your neck sucked on fizzling in his nerves. Derek’s claim will be bruised onto his throat for the next week at least—and he hopes Derek will want to keep marks on his body at all times.

Derek ruts his dick against Stiles’ thigh, lapping his tongue hot and soothing across Stiles’ neck in a slick bath. He kisses across the marks, running his hands down Stiles’ sides to fit his fingers against his ribs.

“You wanna lick anything else?” Stiles teases, and Derek growls against his throat. It’s a long, deep sound that goes straight to Stiles’ dick, and his mind goes offline for a moment.

“What are you offering?”

“All of it?”

Derek laughs, a sound that is meant to be human but gets swallowed by the wolf. He sits back, pushing his knees up under Stiles’ thighs as he kneels on the bed, and tugs at Stiles’ shirt. “Off.” His eyes are still burning scarlet, but they’re gentle and warm.

Stiles licks his lips, grabs the hem of his shirt, and pulls it up over his head and tosses it to the floor in a graceless half sit-up. “Pants too?”

“All of it,” Derek groans, smoothing his palm from Stiles’ belly button up to his collarbone, the runes humming in the trail of his touch. “Please.”

“Ah, you might have to help. Can’t feel my legs,” Stiles says, blushing as he covers his face with his hands.

Grinning, Derek dips forward and kisses Stiles’ jaw. “Happy to,” he says, and stuffs his hands into Stiles’ sweatpants to get two handfuls of his ass.

Stiles groans, rolling his hips up at the touch, hands running up Derek’s sides, the bare skin burning hot under his fingertips.

“God, the way you move,” Derek says, breathy and low, and he digs his fingers into the supple flesh of Stiles’ ass and drags him down the bed, further onto Derek’s lap.

“Uh, like a seven-armed octopus?” Stiles asks, stretching his arms over his head as Derek kneads his ass-cheeks. Stiles tilts his head back and groans, because that’s somewhere even his own fingers haven’t been for a good long while.

“Not exactly the image my mind picks up when you grind on my lap like that,” Derek says, grinning as he frees one hand from Stiles’ sweats to touch the bit of feathering above the rune on his hip bone. The dark ink flares up warm and red under his thumb, and Derek’s lids droop like a cat in sunshine. “You still don’t know what you do to me, do you?”

At that, Derek gently rubs a dry fingertip lightly over Stiles’ furled hole, and Stiles bites his lip and grips his pillow over his head. “ _ Oh _ , I’m not getting a clear signal.”

A growl rumbles in Derek’s chest, and he pulls his hands away in favor of hooking his fingers in the waistband of Stiles’ sweats. Stiles is both dismayed and elated that he isn’t wearing underwear as Derek pulls his sweats down his thighs, down around his knees.

Derek tugs up, and Stiles lifts his legs up, up, so Derek can pull his sweats all the way off and drop them on the floor. Stiles is naked so quickly, his heart fluttering behind his ribs because he’s on his back naked in his bed, partially on Derek’s lap, and it’s a wet dream come to life.

When Stiles moves to put his legs back down around Derek’s lap, Derek carefully grabs one ankle and brings Stiles’ foot up to his shoulder. He turns his head, a soft, warm smile on his lips, and kisses the ink of Stiles’ fox tattoo.

Stiles gets a dizzying headrush, like he’s falling headfirst and stumbling backwards at the same time. The edges of the fox flare up red, and it stretches its front legs out and preens under Derek’s lips. “That’s… yup.”

Derek smiles, then brushes his noses over the fox, his fingertips brushing over the hound. “Looks nothing like Scott, by the way.”

“It’s an homage, not a portrait,” Stiles huffs.

“Where’s my special tattoo, then?” Derek says, eyeing the runes and branches on Stiles’ collar bones.

Stiles quirks a brow. “You want one?”

“Couldn’t hurt.”

“Actually, it could. It’s a tattoo.” Stiles rolls his shoulders, absently tangling his own fingers together over his head. “But for you, I could deal with it.”

“You don’t actually have to get a tattoo for me, Stiles. I was kidding.”

Stiles looks up into Derek’s eyes, and he can see Derek picking up the way his heartbeat stammers, goes just a bit faster. “I wasn’t.”

Derek sets Stiles’ ankle on his shoulder, running his hands down the inside and outside of Stiles’ thigh. The slow, melted-butter smooth action of it makes Stiles’ cock twitch against his belly, and his other leg falls wide open around Derek’s hip, baring the length of his body to Derek’s gaze fully.

And he gazes his fill, making Stiles’ whole face and chest flush with the way his pupils swallow the red of his irises. Stiles can practically feel the fire of Derek’s stare as it passes each inch of his body, eating up the runes and the pale, freckled flesh between dark lines. Derek seems especially interested in the dusting of hair beneath Stiles’ belly button, and then the well-groomed patch of it that’s currently getting uncomfortably sticky with Stiles’ pre-cum. His cock is lying against his belly, fully hard and damp, and Stiles wants to touch himself, but Derek’s eyes seem to be having a greater effect than his own hands ever have.

“You smell so good,” Derek says, tongue nearly lolling out of his mouth as his fingers brush over the small butterflies and sprigs of lavender on the inside of Stiles’ left thigh. “I’ve never seen these before. You kept them a secret?”

Stiles wriggles. “They’re girly.”

“They’re part of you, and that makes them dangerous, and beautiful,” Derek says. The monarch’s wings flutter under his touch, and the blue morpho shimmers like wine, red shining through the blue ink.

“You’re the first person to ever touch them. You’re the first person to ever make my magic glow,” Stiles admits, and Derek sulks forward between his legs, exhaling a hot, damp breath across the base of Stiles’ dick.

“Am I the first for anything else?” Derek asks, rubbing his thumb teasingly at the soft skin where Stiles’ thigh meets his cock without touching anything else.

Stiles sits up on his elbows a bit, and when Derek looks up at him, his cheeks are flushed bright, his eyes downcast.

Derek blinks. “You aren’t a virgin?”

Immediately, Stiles glares up at him, blushing even darker. “Hey, I resent that disbelieving tone. You want a piece of this ass—why shouldn’t anyone else?”

Then it’s Derek’s turn to blush, and he sits back and rests his hands on Stiles’ thighs lightly. “I just… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to assume—I was just hoping.”

“You were hoping I was a virgin?”

Derek drops his head back and sighs at the ceiling.

“Oh my god, what an old fashioned wolf you are,” Stiles snickers.

“It’s fine. Realistically, why would you be a virgin just for me?” Derek lifts one hand and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to seem like… that’s hypocritical.”

“Hey, it’s fine. I haven’t been a virgin for a couple years now.” Stiles lays back against the pillows again and closes his eyes. “Still wish it was you, though…”

Derek flinches at that, smoothing his hand over Stiles’ thigh, down to gently curve his fingers under his calf. “So… who was it?”

Stiles snorts, an inelegant laugh that he tries to stifle with one hand. He looks up and meets Derek’s gaze again. “Uhm… Danny?”

The name tumbles around in Derek’s head. “Danny…  _ Danny _ Danny.”

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

“That’s just… I wasn’t expecting.” Derek looks down at Stiles’ body, and Stiles can practically see the gears turning in his head, can just imagine what Derek is thinking of.

Stiles sits up, brushing his knuckles over Derek’s cheek before curling his fingers behind his ear, scratching into his hair. “Well, I mean, he’s the  _ only _ person I’ve ever slept with, dick or otherwise. And it was only a couple of times…”

Finally, Derek looks at him, and his confusion is overtaking that distressed expression. “But  _ Lydia? _ ”

Stiles laughs, bumping his forehead against Derek’s jaw, resting it there. “I mean, we almost did, once. But I started laughing, and then she was slapping me, and we just couldn’t stop laughing after that. We weren’t even out of our underwear.”

“You’ve never slept with a girl?” Derek mumbles.

Stiles shrugs easily. “Too gay I guess. I mean, if Lydia can’t defeat a giggle fit with a boner, who can?”

“Danny, apparently,” Derek says under his breath.

With a laugh, Stiles pushes his face into Derek’s neck. He kisses along Derek’s pulse, then noses along the shell of his ear. “Are you jealous?”

Derek’s hands tense around his calf and hip, nails scratching at the skin. “…He’s nice. And handsome.”

“Hm, yeah. Definitely both of those things,” Stiles says, then kisses Derek’s neck again. He scoots up onto Derek’s lap, forcing Derek to sit back a bit so Stiles can straddle his thighs. Stiles gets both of his hands into Derek’s hair, nearly dry now, and drags his nose along Derek’s jawline. “But you’re my  _ Derek _ . Ten times more handsome than anybody else, brave and smart and stubborn. The only person I’ve ever loved like this.”

Derek purrs, grabbing Stiles’ hips as he pushes his face against Stiles’ bruised throat. “ _ I’m _ the stubborn one?”

“Definitely.” Stiles tilts his face down and kisses Derek’s forehead. “Did I kill the mood?”

Grinning, Derek lifts his hips up while holding Stiles down, grinding his dick up against the curve of Stiles’ bare ass. “Does it feel like it?”

“Thank fuck, cause to be perfectly honest, I don’t have a lot of patience left in me.” Outside the thunder hums and echoes, and the rain picks up on the rooftop.

Derek releases one of Stiles’ hips in favor of slipping his hand between them, curling his fingers around Stiles’ dick and giving it a slow, tight pump. “Do you want to come in my hand? In my mouth?” He gives Stiles’ cock a tight circle to fuck up into when Stiles’ hips jolt. 

“ _ Shit _ , okay, brain offline,” Stiles pants, shuddering as Derek starts sliding his hand up and down his slick cock in a steady rhythm. He digs his nails into Derek’s shoulders, rocking up so the head of his cock touches Derek’s abs when he slides down and squeezes the base of Stiles’ dick.

“Answer the question, Stiles,” Derek says in a growly tone, then laves his tongue over the branches and runes on Stiles’ collar bone. The magic flares up under the skin, and Stiles’ cock leaks an embarrassing amount of precum all over Derek’s palm and fingers.

“ _ Haaah.  _ What… what do you want?” Stiles pants, struggling to open his eyes so he can see Derek’s face.

He gasps at the sight of Derek in his beta shift, fangs dropped, face sharp angles and dark hair, and Stiles struggles to breathe as Derek says, “I want to make you come all over me. I want to smell like you; I want to see your magic when you come for me.”

Derek barely finishes the words before Stiles is crashing their mouths together, tasting his blood, maybe Derek’s, as he licks into Derek’s mouth. He licks Derek’s fangs, kisses his slack lips as he scratches down Derek’s chest and pulls at his hair.

Derek must like the sudden roughness, too, because he growls into Stiles’ mouth and starts pumping his dick fast and wet.

Stiles’ spine feels static, electricity crawling between his vertebrae, tingling in the back of his skull, and deep in the pit of his stomach molten hot heat coils up tighter and tighter as Derek strips his cock faster. He starts rocking his hips, rubbing and grinding his ass down against the thick, hot bulge still confined in Derek’s tight briefs. Stiles can feel the wet leaking through the fabric, hot and sticky against his ass, and he moans right into Derek’s mouth.

Under Derek’s other hand, Stiles feels his magic burning, the edges of the runes Derek touches tender and hot, carbonated bubbles popping all across his skin, the sensation drugging. Derek growls, sliding his hand over Stiles’ ass, claws grazing the skin as he grabs at the soft flesh and squeezes.

“Derek.  _ Derek _ ,” Stiles pants, Derek licking his lips and cheek, wet and messy.

The rain pounds louder outside, a flash of lighting outside the window painting Stiles’ dim room bright and white for a split moment. His palms ache, and Derek growls and bites the curve of his jaw, and Stiles realizes he’s shocking Derek again.

Wisps of white and plum energy crawl from his fingers like smoke, tiny shocks like static cling nipping his flesh before soaking into Derek’s skin like sunrays. His runes are edged in soft white.

“I’m sor—“

“Come for me, Stiles. Come on,” Derek growls, nipping his way down Stiles’ throat, tugging him close as he rubs his thumb in circles over Stiles’ slit, teasing. “Please.”

Stiles exhales a choked off sound, wrapping his arms around Derek’s neck as his toes curl, the crackle in his spine turning to a hum, feathers fluttering and branches rustling, ink a song across his skin only Derek can hear. Then Stiles is coming, and the storm outside sounds quiet as dripping icicles, and his limbs go taut as plucked strings.

Derek is praising him, his hand slow, gentle as it coaxes every drop of pleasure out of Stiles, and when Stiles inhales, his mind a prickle of white light, he nearly collapses back onto the bed. Derek holds him close, smelling the way he did that day in the cabin. Musk and forest, home and safe.

Stiles slouches, his bleary eyes focusing on Derek’s chest, painted with glistening ropes of his own cum. In his afterglow delirium, Stiles grabs Derek by the jaw and kisses him, pulling him over his body as Stiles lays back. Derek braces his hands on either side of Stiles’ head, his knees pushing Stiles’ legs up around his hips. 

Growling, Derek licks into Stiles’ mouth without hesitation, and Stiles gets his hands down Derek’s back and yanks his briefs down under the curve of his—fantastic, by the way—ass. “Stiles,” Derek groans, pushing his forehead against Stiles’ as Stiles slips his hands between them.

“Your turn,” Stiles huffs.

“I’m—“

“You’re gonna come on me. Gonna fuck my hand until you get me all wet. Mark me up with your scent—I want everyone to be able to smell  _ us _ .” Stiles kisses Derek’s cheek, his jaw, then sits up enough that he can see Derek’s cock as he frees it from the waistband of his briefs. “Oh my  _ fucking _ heck,” he chokes out.

Yeah, so Stiles had fantasized about Derek’s dick since before he knew he was gay. Since before he knew he wanted Derek at all, really—back when they hated each other and life was a dick punch. But actually seeing it between Derek’s hairy thighs, uncut and wet and red, so erect it nearly juts straight out, well… Stiles wasn’t ready for that.

He sighs, brushing his fingertips along the thick vein on the underside.

Derek makes a sound like a dog that’s been kicked in the side, and he goes down on his elbows, nearly dropping his face flat into Stiles’. “I’m sorry.”

“Gods, you’re gorgeous. You’re so beautiful, Derek,” Stiles says, and then he curls his fingers around Derek’s cock and gives it a smooth, full tug. His fingers don’t even wrap all the way around the thickness of it, and Stiles groans into Derek’s neck. He tugs Derek’s foreskin down and smears precum over the head. “Bet you taste so good. Told you earlier I wanted to get my mouth on you, but you’re so hard. I don’t think you could last that long.”

Derek whimpers, then snarls, lifting his head so he can pant hotly against Stiles’ temple. “I could last for hours if you wanted me to.”

Stiles shudders, biting his lip to keep up the rhythm he has going. “Maybe next time. Just wanna make you come for me.” He kisses Derek’s jaw and lays back, getting both of his hands on Derek’s cock so he can cover more of it at once.

Derek definitely likes the addition, and he growls and shoves his face against Stiles’ shoulder, his back arching, knees shoving Stiles’ thighs open wider as he tries to fuck up into Stiles’ belly. “Your hands, your fucking hands,” he gasps, practically drooling on Stiles’ collar bone.

Grinning, Stiles licks Derek’s cheek, and he feels his cock give a valiant twitch, willing to rejoin the party but not strong enough. Stiles tilts his head to the side, baring the unmarked side of his throat, all pale skin and scattered beauty marks. “You can, if you want.”

He hears the sheets tear, and beside his head Derek’s claws have definitely gone through the comforter into the mattress top. There’s a growl against Stiles’ throat, and Stiles cranes his neck harder, his pulse hammering.

“ _ Can’t _ ,” Derek says, and his voice is far from human. Stiles can see the thick hair across his forearms, the way his shoulders have stretched, broadened, and while he’s a thousand percent proud  _ he’s _ the one undoing Derek’s humanity, he wants Derek to feel safe with him. He  _ needs _ it.

“Okay. Whenever you’re ready. I want it,” Stiles says. Derek nuzzles his significantly harrier face into Stiles’ neck, and Stiles nuzzles him back in an awkward neck hug. “Know what else I want?”

Derek grunts, his arms quivering above Stiles, his hips stuttering in their already uncoordinated thrusts as Stiles strokes his cock.

“I want you to come on me. I want everyone to smell my alpha on me,” Stiles whispers, his voice rough against Derek’s neck. He twists one wrist elegantly over Derek’s cockhead, the other gripping the base, and then Stiles sets his teeth against Derek’s skin, where his neck meets thick shoulder muscle.

The pressure isn’t enough to break skin, not even enough to bruise a werewolf. But Derek sucks in a ragged breath, and Stiles can kiss his comforter goodbye as Derek shudders over him.

He snarls, crawling forward, nearly folding Stiles in half in his urgency to be closer, closer, and Stiles bites just a bit harder as Derek starts breaking apart. The first splash of cum drips across Stiles’ abs, and his stomach quivers at the sudden heat. The next few spurts reach Stiles’ chest, a few drops wetting his  _ throat _ , and he keeps milking Derek’s cock through it with both hands.

“That’s it, Derek, fuck. Don’t stop,” Stiles says, his fingers faltering at the base of Derek’s dick. “Oh…  _ oh, fuck yes. _ That’s it, alpha.”

“ _ Stiles, shut up, _ ” Derek pleads, because his voice doesn’t sound even a single percent threatening as he’s gasping for breath, still shaking like a big werewolf leaf over Stiles’ body.

“Hey, mum’s the word,” Stiles says, then squeezes the knot at the base of Derek’s dick. “Does it get bigger?”

Derek just whines and clacks his teeth beside Stiles’ neck. Another jet of cum ropes across Stiles’ stomach, and there’s so much wetness slicking him up, it feels like Derek uncapped a bottle of lube and splashed him with it. Quietly, Derek replies against Stiles’ sweaty temple, “ _ Yes. Yeah, it… bigger. _ ”

“Good. Why isn’t it bigger now?”

_ “Talking… hard, _ ” Derek growls.

“Alright, wolf man,” Stiles says, smiling as Derek’s quakes start to steady into soft trembles. “Lay down, it’s okay. Come here.”

Derek groans, then nearly collapses on top of Stiles before he realizes his cock is still held in Stiles’ hands. Stiles releases it, and then holds his hands out awkwardly as Derek smears the mess between them. 

“Uhm…” Derek swats at him, purring against Stiles throat before he grabs one of Stiles’ wrists and pulls his arm awkwardly over his back. Stiles runs his slick hands over the small of Derek’s back, then, seeing as Derek is not deterred by the feeling of being covered in two loads of cum and then some, wraps his arms around Derek and squeezes him close.

Derek sighs, using one hand to gingerly rub the scattered drops of his cum into Stiles’ skin.

“Kinky,” Stiles teases, even though his dick is yet again raising its hand to offer up the suggestion of a round two that just can’t happen after such an earth-shattering orgasm, thanks, but sorry.

Huffing, Derek nuzzles into Stiles, his features going from bristled to smooth, and then he’s fully human again, lying on top of Stiles in their shared mess like he was made to be there. “Mating.”

“Come again?” Stiles says, then mentally slaps himself at his choice of words.

Derek chuckles, breathing deeply before lifting himself up on one elbow so he can look down at Stiles.

Stiles is mad beyond belief the moment he realizes he missed Derek’s O Face, but the afterglow on his skin and the bright glow of his green-gold eyes quells that anger just a bit. Derek’s hair is totally well and truly fucked, black strands jutting all over the place, and his mouth is red and pouty from too many rough kisses. His throat is flushed, the mix of sweat and cum on his skin an alluring sheen.

“Not yet. But give me a nap for an hour or two and I could give you that,” Derek says, splaying his palm over Stiles’ stomach. He slides it up to Stiles’ chest, rubbing his cum into the skin, and the smell of sex and sweat and burning magic is amplified to Stiles’ senses.

Under Derek’s hand, his runes gleam hazel—emerald and honey blooming through the dark ink. Stiles looks from the raven on his arm up at Derek’s face.

They still match.

“You… you said mating,” Stiles manages, lifting his own arm though it feels like lead so he can smear his own cum into the ridges and plains of Derek’s chest and abs.

Derek’s eyes droop shut contentedly, and he rubs his scent into Stiles’ neck then keeps his palm pressed there. “My… my knot. It gets bigger for mating. For a pairing to be successful, the knot swells up. It keeps us tied together while your body soaks up my… pups.” Derek’s ears blush.

“Well, we’d better try that out ASAP, because I demand to be full of pups,” Stiles says, pulling Derek down for a slow, languid kiss that tastes like ozone and honey.

After about twelve minutes of making out, Stiles gets uncomfortable. The storm outside has turned from a thundering deluge to a misty gray sprinkle, and the smell of his own armpits isn’t nearly as nice as Derek seems to think it is.

“Alright, shower time,” Stiles says, and Derek growls, winding his limbs around Stiles, trapping him. “Derek.”

Derek grumbles. “You smell like us… I…” Derek eases his hold a bit, looking down at the pile of their clothes on the floor. “I moved too fast, didn’t I?”

“What?” Stiles sits up, pushing Derek back. “What, no. Why would you say that?”

“I just… I kissed you, and that’s all I meant to do, but then I wanted more, and you just—“

“Gave it to you? Yeah. In case you didn’t notice, I said I’ve been in love with you for a while. I enjoyed all of this. Did you not?”

“No! I mean yes!” Derek cups Stiles’ face in his hands, and Stiles covers those hands with his. “I did… It was amazing. It’s not like I regret it, I just…”

Stiles nods, smiling.

“I’ve wanted you for so long. I’ve loved you so much I could barely stand it. I guess… I don’t want to feel like we skipped any steps.” Derek admits.

“Derek, there’s no specific steps to loving someone. We can do this however we want. It’s  _ our _ way,” Stiles says, then kisses Derek softly on the mouth. “I’m all on board for romantic picnics or candlelit dinners. You can even get my dad to chaperone our movie dates—you can pretend to yawn and put your arm around me.”

“Sounds like something you would do,” Derek grumbles.

“We can go straight into the kinky handcuff sex—I already told you I wanted your knot. I’m game for anything you wanna try.”

“Please slow down,” Derek says, but he’s laughing.

“You can woo me as slowly or as quickly as you like, because you know what? I’m already yours. Aren’t you mine?”

Derek looks into Stiles’ eyes, and his own flash red for a heartbeat, a breath, but it’s the most vividly red Stiles has ever seen them. “Before I’m anything else, I’m yours…”

“Fucking  _ sap _ ,” Stiles groans, and then crushes their mouths together, tackling Derek backwards onto the bed.

They don’t end up showering until the sun is nearly going down, and when Derek comes out of the bathroom before Stiles with a towel around his waist and runs into the Sheriff, John just says, “Scott owes me twenty.”

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I don't have too much to say for this fic, other than it grew legs and ran into a plot, and I was like "...It was just supposed to be tattoo/magic kinkiness... Damn it, Mo"  
> There will be more tattooed adventures for magic Stiles and his alpha in the future.


End file.
